Rancor
by headtrip parade
Summary: All hell breaks loose at the lake house. Heavy angst. Two-parter.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is a two part, angst-ridden speculation piece based on some photos that were tweeted from set last week and a couple of other spoilers that are floating around for an upcoming episode. The first part is very dialogue heavy (so get those accents going in your heads!) and centers mostly around Deacon and what he needs to get off his chest. The second chapter will be Rayna's reaction to him and how everything ends up pieced back together, if it does at all. ;) It's pure speculation, but it's also everything I want to see happen. These two have to fall apart on each other at some point, right?! ;)**

**Anyway, beware if you don't like spoilers. There is more language in this than I typically use in stories. Enjoy!**

* * *

Rayna shivered as she stepped out of the Escalade, wrapping her black sweater tighter around herself.

It was a fairly warm afternoon in early March, but she was sure the frigid chills running rampant through her body were not the product of a brisk air so much as she was just reacting to being back at that place.

She had not stepped foot on the property in fourteen years; since the day she approached the door with a determined intention to tell Deacon she was likely pregnant with his child. She was so sure of what she was going to say as she walked onto the porch, but Tandy spoke like a devil on her shoulder; she made her _doubt_.

So she'd left.

She'd gotten back into Tandy's Mercedes and they drove back to Nashville in silence.

Now, here she was again; so intent on what needs to be said; so _sure_ of her delivery that she was using the false confidence to ward off the various involuntary physical reactions she was having to simply smelling the lake water.

She gingerly stepped onto the wooden porch, taking note of the table and chairs that adorned it now. She also saw that he'd replaced the simple light fixture with a strange, albeit artsy sort of metal covering.

The porch could use a coat of paint, and while the house had certainly aged along with the two of them, she couldn't help but grin at the obvious evidence that he still took pride in this home he had purchased for her; that he still cherished it.

Her heart swelled at the idea that he'd even kept it after all the demons that were unleashed inside the four walls. If it were her, she would have unloaded it first chance she got.

That'd always been the difference between them—she would compartmentalize and do what she had to do to remove herself from a situation, while he held on for dear life. She would lock doors and throw away the keys and he would grasp blindly for slippery ropes, praying for nirvana.

Her breath caught in her throat as she placed her hands on either side of her eyes and peered through the window. There were a few noticeable improvements, but by and large the interior was just as she'd remembered it.

The couch was still in the same spot as the night they'd made love for hours; it was exactly where it was when she found him passed out on it the next morning. The table was also still there, like it had never been touched. The most glaring difference to her was there were no bottles scattered around; no records shattered on the floor.

She knew he was there. His truck was parked in the usual spot and there was evidence of someone inhabiting the house in the way of stray coffee mugs, an unfolded newspaper and a set of keys on the bar, but the lights were out; the domicile was empty.

An all too familiar pang of fear jolted her stomach. She tried to gulp it down with the idea that everything was different now; that he had the best reason in the world to stay on the straight and narrow; that his _daughter_ and not the bottle was guiding his sails.

Still, the fear festered. She quickly jumped off the porch and walked around to the side of the house. Her cheeks grew flush with worry as she found no sign of him on the side or the back.

"DEACON!"

She screamed his name as involuntarily as she had shivered before.

She repeated it once, twice, then three times, walking quickly back to the front so she could beat on the door. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of him walking up the hill, a half-finished wooden chair in his hand.

She looked down, immediately feeling silly at her instinctual reaction.

"Hey," she muttered shyly.

"Hey, Ray," His eyes were empty, his face careworn. "What are you doing here?'

She moved her shoulders back and raised her head, bringing her eyes firmly to his.

"We need to talk."

He nodded blankly, using his free arm to wipe an itch on his forehead.

"Yeah. I guess we do."

* * *

She leaned on the bar, delicately watching his every move as he prepared his coffee. She studied every crease on his face, every flex of his arm muscles, every curl of his fingers; she listened sharply to every breath he took. She looked for any possible sign that he was about to fall back into his dark abyss.

She glanced up at her as he walked around the bar, coming to stand across from her. After twenty years of struggle, he could always feel her gaze burning into him and he always knew what she was thinking: _"When's he going to fuck up?"_

"You don't have to do that," he said, placing his coffee on the bar. "Just ask me."

"Do what? _Ask_ you what?" She looked down, trying in vain to play the best kind of stupid.

"If I drank. If I'm gonna drink."

"Deacon, I'm not—"

"Save it, Rayna. That's exactly why you're here."

She sighed, pulling a stool out and sitting down casually as if she hadn't been absent from the house for over a decade.

"That's not why I'm here, Deacon. I just came to talk, but I am scared. This is a lot for you to deal with."

He shrugged.

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"Can you handle it without a bottle?"

Her tone was cold; accusatory. It shocked him, but didn't at the same time. Every time he thought a wall had come down between them, she made damn sure to put one back up. He just wondered how she'd drive all the way to him out of apparent concern and then be so dismissive.

He smirked angrily.

"It's good to have you back here, Ray."

She rolled her eyes and stood up.

"Deacon, I don't want to fight. Coleman called me. He said you'd reached out to him and told him you were hiding out up here for a while. I just don't know if being up here all by yourself with everything that's gone on is the best—"

"What's gone on, Ray?"

She smiled slightly, taken aback at the serious nature of his question.

"You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head.

"You just got out of a serious relationship under extremely painful circumstances. Teddy's throwing you road blocks every two feet, and now this mess with the press… I want to have faith in you, Deacon. I do, but I'm going to bat for more than just myself here. I have to protect my daughters. I have to protect _your_ daughter."

He smirked and focused his gaze on the floor. She could see that he was beaten and exhausted. She could see the demons hovering around him like flies on cake, but to her unspoken relief, she could also see something different in his eyes. He hadn't come up here to drink; he'd come up here to really just run away.

"What—" he choked, grabbing the back of the stool next to him to sturdy his gait. He swallowed hard before bringing his eyes up to hers. "I mean how… how can you come up here and say that to me with a straight face?"

"Excuse me?"

"All the sudden she's _my_ daughter to you?"

Rayna crossed her arms.

"She _is_ your daughter, Deacon. And now the whole world knows and we need to be her parents and figure out what the hell we're gonna do to protect her from this."

She could see the veins in his hand bulging as he gripped the back of the stool with immense force, all while clenching his other fist into a ball at his side.

"I went to a bar, Rayna," He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears. She pursed her lips. "I went in and I ordered a shot but I didn't take it. I looked at it. I thought about it. I even picked it up. I was weak when I walked in there. Finding out about Megan, Teddy riding my ass day in and day out, the fucking paparazzi pitching tents outside my house… but you know what?"

"What?" She responded dryly.

"I _didn't fucking_ take it. All that was going through my head was my little girl. So I walked away. It was so easy to walk away. It'd never been so easy..." he trailed off.

Rayna cleared her throat and looked down, folding her hands in front of her.

"I'm proud of you, Deacon. That's—"

"I'm not finished," He stared at her, his misty eyes aflame with an anger that she had never seen. She planted her feet firmly, feeling sure that the anger was directed at no one but her. "When I put that shot glass down and walked out of that bar I was so happy. For the first time I knew that I had done right by her, finally. All I wanted was to hear her voice, so I called her. We talked for an hour."

A single tear slipped down Rayna's cheek.

"We talked about everything and nothing. It felt awesome. But when I hung up, I couldn't shake the feeling that I _hate _you."

She gasped.

They'd said terrible things to each other; they'd had knockdown, drag out fights but not once had either of them ever said… _that_. He may as well have punched her in the gut.

"Deacon, all I ever wanted was—"

She shrieked and jumped back as all of his strength went into his limbs and he pushed the stool over with a single hand.

"GOD DAMN IT, Rayna, you stole my daughter from me!"

Tears fell freely down his face, but his eyes were wild. Arteries bulged from his neck, red with ire. All of the hurt, anger, and pain of knowing the secret were boiling to his surface as he screamed at her. He couldn't pretend to forgive her anymore.

"I loved you more than anything in the world, Rayna! I wanted you! I wanted a family! I wanted _her!_ You and her are all I ever wanted and you had her the whole time! I know I'm not perfect, but you hid her in plain sight while you let that piss ant piece of shit have every moment with her that was supposed to be mine. _I _was supposed to rock her to sleep. _I _was supposed to hold her when she cried. _I_ was supposed to see her first steps and drop her off at preschool. _I_ was supposed to be there because _I'm_ her father."

Rayna stood completely still as silent sobs racked her body. She was numb with guilt, but also enraged. She was enraged with him; with Teddy; with the press... she was enraged with everyone, but mostly just herself.

She flinched slightly as Deacon inched closer to her. He was shaking and choking back his own sobs. She thought he was going to yell some more, but when he opened his mouth a biting whisper is what he let out.

"You didn't think I could do it, choose her over a drink. You didn't think I could love her enough. You say you had faith in me, but you didn't. And then you looked me in the eye and told me you loved me. You whispered it in my ear while I was inside you, after you gave birth to my child. What kind of person _are_ you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**So here's the end! This is not nearly as dialogue driven as the first piece. Thanks for all of the kind reviews! Enjoy. :)**

* * *

"…_what kind of person are you?"_

She shuddered as he continued to inch closer. Little by little, the space between them dissipated. She could almost feel the heat his body was throwing, though this was a very different heat than they'd thrown each other in the past.

She feared this closeness.

She knew he would never physically hurt her, but the closer he stood while demanding an answer meant she had no room to run. After all, running was what she was used to doing. She'd been running from this for fourteen years, but she couldn't anymore. He didn't leave her adequate space this time, in any capacity.

"Deacon," she whispered; her lip quivering as she struggled to breathe. "Please."

He stopped just barely close enough to touch her. She closed her eyes at the sight of his hands visibly shaking. She couldn't bring herself to look at his face; the anguish she knew was there would absolutely crush her and the faint glimmer of resolve she had left.

"I asked you a question, Rayna."

She couldn't fight it anymore, as badly as she wanted to.

She raised her eyes to his, taking in everything. For all the times he'd completely broken her, she'd finally broken him. His eyes were red and a few stray tears still found their way down his face. His skin was flushed and she found nothing in the soul of his eyes. The burning rage from before was gone, but so was everything else. There was certainly no glimpse of understanding, nor was there sadness.

Her lip trembled more as she realized that for the first time in 26 years, there was no trace of love when he stared into her in that way that had always made her feel so completely exposed.

She turned away from him, collapsing atop the bar in near hysterics.

She hated herself.

She knew what she'd done the whole time. She was too proud to admit it to herself, so she pushed it aside. She used everyone else's terrible advice and convinced herself that he was a monster. Every time in Maddie's young life she felt a pang of sorrow because he wasn't around for the occasion, she reminded herself that he simply wasn't built for it.

He was a drunk.

He was a violent, self-fulfilling prophecy and she had to protect her child; she had to protect herself.

He didn't deserve to be there when she fell off the see-saw on the churchyard at three and needed four stitches in her chubby knee.

He didn't deserve to be there the day she performed her first piano recital.

He didn't deserve to come to the meeting with her first grade teacher where they learned she had scored in the 98th percentile for reading on the state exam.

He didn't deserve any of it because he'd thrown everything else away.

Perhaps she'd even kept it from him to not only spare Maddie of his bullshit, but to get back at him for all the times she had to sit in an ER waiting room. Perhaps she wanted him to suffer for the time she had to walk in and see him on a ventilator, or for the time that she literally had to drag him out of the seediest motel in Nashville on his back while she screamed for someone to help her bony 125 pounds carry all of his dead weight.

She could justify her decision for years upon years to come, she thought.

He could tell her he hated her all he wanted; he could scream at her, or wail until he suffocated… he could fall on his knees in front of her and beg her for an answer but none of it would change that's what done is done and what she did was right.

Except… it wasn't.

She wept harder, just knowing… knowing that fourteen years of epic secrets, lies, justifications, excuses, and every other piece of bullshit that had clouded her world were finally, _finally_ coming back around to her; knowing that she could outrun it no more.

He was absolutely right.

What she'd done—keeping him close all those years, holding onto the ring he gave her, telling him she loved him, making love to him like every time was the last time—it was sickening.

_She_ was sickening.

All of his transgressions, his demons, his fits, and his falls… none of it changed that she had carried his daughter, given birth to her, and elaborately schemed to keep him away, no matter how well he went on to be.

She knew he had wanted a family with her and more than anything she wanted the same with him, but she was simply too afraid. She feared her own fear to point of no return, so that's where she'd gone. She married Teddy, locked the paternity test away, and never looked back until that very moment.

She lifted her head, slowing turning to face him as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

She didn't care that he used the word "hate" for the first time in nearly three decades, nor did she care that his eyes were no longer aglow for her, at least for that moment. All she cared about was him standing two inches away from her.

So she grabbed him. She pulled him close and clung to him for dear life, crying into the nape of his neck.

She felt his arms go reluctantly around her back and she almost went limp. She opened her eyes and glanced around the room, noticing the sun had started to go down. There was just barely enough light for her to make out a new piece of décor: a simple sign over the door that read only, "eternity."

_Eternity._

Was this their eternity? A never ending life of grief and indignation? Or was it the two of them entangled in each other's bodies, always seeking the next moment because one simply can't live without the other? Were they destined to be the worst of each other, or the best of each other?

She was so vulnerable in that moment; she felt stripped to her naked core. She couldn't say everything she wanted to say quite yet, but she could say the most important thing he needed to hear.

She raised her head slowly, placing her lips against his ear.

"_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_


End file.
